


Northern flags in South wind flutter

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Ball, Civil War, Confederate AU, F/M, Slow Burn, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: She had survived the battle, only to find herself in the line of fire.





	Northern flags in South wind flutter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts), [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/gifts).



The ball was in full swing, and Mary could no longer stand it.

What had begun as a small gathering had blown up to quite the event, owing to the two youngest Greens. James Jr. had invited many of his friends, all of which paraded proudly in their new uniforms and shiny sabers, to the delight of the coterie of pretty young ingénues led by Alice.

A respectable number of chaperones lined the walls, but they could do precious little against the energy of the young soldiers hungry for war, glory and admiration. Punch bowls were refilled by the house staff just as soon as they were emptied, an extra bottle or two of spirits emptied into them by the boys, and the overall level of excitement was starting to reach a fever pitch that Mary dreaded.

There were too many greybacks, too many bullied house slaves, too many shouted oaths to kill all the Yanks for her comfort. One misstep, and she would be the county’s first casualty.

All evening long, she had played her part right: ardently discussing the war effort, praising the new enlists on their courage, never refusing one a dance. She had assisted Mrs. Green in dispatching orders, ensuring that the tables never ran low on the exquisite dishes of which she could not imagine the provenance of the rare ingredients. She had been enthusiastically enthralled by the boasting of Captain Hale, the town’s doctor with a military background, and, to hear him say it, the unsung hero of many obscure battles. She had kept Mrs. Stringfellow company as she sat sullenly while the others danced, and only taken her leave when kind Reverend Hopkins had managed to draw a smile on the young woman’s face and engage her in lively conversation. She had even clapped and sung along all the hymns and patriotic songs played by the band, but now that Jimmy was heavily attacking _Dixie’s Land_ yet again on the piano, she felt her rope was at an end.

Mary scanned the room, but no one was paying her any attention, save perhaps from Mr. Squivers. She had granted him two dances already, and from the looks of him, muttering in concentration over his glass, he was gathering up the courage and the right words to request a third. She would save them both the disappointment.

Without skipping a beat, she slid through the crowd and out of the nearest door. The relative silence that greeted her in the dark hallway drew a sigh, and the weariness of an evening spent with a permanent smile and forced cheerful disposition was finally allowed to flood her. _Just a small rest,_ she told herself; but there was no chair in the corridor, so she crossed it to what she remembered to be the library. Carefully, she turned the handle and stole in… only to fall straight upon the other man she had been trying to avoid.

Jedidiah Foster had been lounging in an armchair, a closed book in his lap, a glass in hand, head thrown back, the oil lamp turned to barely more than candlelight. At her entrance, he stood up abruptly, but relaxed as he recognized her.

“Mrs. von Olnhausen!” he greeted her merrily. “You find me in my little haven of solace. What brings you here? Is this rousing rendition of _Dixie_ not to your liking?”

 _Is this a trap?_ she wondered at once, anxiety at her loyalties being discovered creeping up again. Despite it, she managed to shrug casually as she stepped in and pushed the door almost closed, the music still audible but muffled. “After the fifth performance, even the staunchest of patriots may start to fatigue. Why did _you_ flee your new brothers-in-arms?”

He sighed wearily. “I started to fatigue at the third, so my patriotism appears to be lacking. I hope you will not report me to these blood-thirsty warriors; they would skin me alive and stick my head on a spike.”

“I don’t doubt it. I almost pity the first enemy they shall face: there will not be much left after they are done with him.” _Most likely me, if I do not play this right_. “But why hide in the dark like a thief?”

“Let me fix that.” He stooped to the lamp and turned the key, the light taking a brighter hue, drawing stark shadows across his face. “I needed some peace and quiet… mostly from Mrs. Hastings,” he admitted, frowning. “She has been quite the… constant presence tonight, to remain polite. Did you know that her dearly departed husband was a Captain in the Crimean War? Fought like a lion against thousand of devils unleashed from Hell itself in Scutari? Against the longest odds known to man?”

The image of Anne Hastings repeatedly attempting to cozy up to a less than receptive Captain was oddly gratifying. “Oh, she must have mentioned it in passing, once or… twenty times,” she replied with a curl in her lips, the threat of discovery drifting away with the promise of banter.

“A warning would have been kind,” he groaned.

“Like the one you granted me before occupying my whole house for days on end? Allow me to not overly empathize; Mrs. Hastings has merely occupied your evening.”

“The evening is not over yet,” he responded. “Captain Hale has apparently not taken lightly to his kinswoman’s baffling interest in me. I’ll consider myself lucky if I manage to escape tonight without that insufferable fellow challenging me to a duel.”

“Finally some excitement!” she enthused with a clap of her hands. “Shall you choose swords or pistols?”

“Pistols, although I’d rather have you and your sharp shooting skills to fire them in my stead. I’m afraid my aim would be just as lacking as my patriotism tonight. I’d almost gladly take a bullet if it would not give that idiot the slightest satisfaction,” he added with a shake of his head, leaning down heavily against the chair.

In the brighter light, she noticed he did not seem his usual self: there was a weariness, a fidgetiness to him she did not recognize as he rubbed his watery eyes. “Are you quite all right, Captain Foster?” she asked, her mirth dissipating. “Perhaps a drop too much of Mr. Squivers’s fine port?”

“No, although definitely a drop more than _you_ , with your newfound adherence to temperance,” he retorted back, testily. “I do not recall this being an issue when army-issued bourbon was on the menu. Is the port or Mr. Squivers not to your liking? Or is it rather the charming Reverend Hopkins’ steadfast moral compass influencing you back to virtuousness?”

The tone of his riposte left her at a loss for words, their earlier repartee now taking a turn for the Inquisition. _Or is it? Is he merely goading me? What is he asking, exactly? The reason why I would not drink tonight? Or why I would not share that drink with him? Or… whose company I preferred instead? Could it be that he is… jealous? No, surely not!_

Finding no answers to her questions, and uncomfortable with the direction they had led her in, she clasped her hands primly, raised her head and stared him down. “None of it: one of us simply had to keep enough wits about to get us safely home.”

Jedediah started at this, the conjunction of “us” and “home” coming so easily from her, referring to them and their well-being. The image immediately quenched any intent of further teasing or barbed replies, dimming the growing irritability he had fought all evening long to keep at bay. Watching her standing tall, so close yet so very far, he suddenly felt quite ashamed for letting his physical discomfort overrule basic courtesy, even going so far as to provoke her, she who had proven nothing but fair to him throughout their imposed circumstances. If not the truth, he had least owed her a modicum of explanation.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he apologized, his hands at his temples. “You see, I suffered a severe bout of migraine this morning. A vexing affliction, but one against which your excellent feverfew has proven a most effective remedy. Unfortunately, its effects seem to be wearing off, hence why I wallow in darkness with such a foul mood, and I shall soon need another dose.”

Her expression changed immediately to one he had seen her take with the wounded soldiers who refused to be reasonable. “What you need is rest, and much of it,” she half-scolded. “It is late enough; let us bid the Greens good-night and leave.”

He looked at the authoritative nurse she had become in fond amusement. The sharp intelligence of her eyes, the decided set of her mouth… the graceful curve of her neck and shoulders revealed by the lower cut of her gown. The fineness of her waist, her corset cinched tighter than her everyday bodice… He swallowed.

“It would be a shame to leave such a fine ball without having had the honor of your hand for a dance.”

It was her turn to be taken aback. _First he hides, then he snaps, and now he wants to dance?_ He must have sensed her discomfort, for he added, somewhat sheepishly: “Unless Mr. Squivers has booked the rest of your dance card?”

“He’s had his fair share,” she said simply, intent on keeping that topic closed. “Very well: you may have one dance, Captain Foster, but then it’s off to bed with you. So what shall it be? The Virginia reel? Quadrille? Cotillion?”

As if on cue, the piece ended, and when the applause and whistles subsided, an unmistakable three quarter rhythm filled the air, and she inwardly cursed Alice Green’s obvious involvement in the musical selection.

“A waltz!” he rejoiced. “What luck! No need for us to leave our little haven and rejoin the dance circle. Unless, as many other proper American ladies, you find such new European imports too scandalous...?” He bowed and, half-expecting her rebuttal, offered his hand.

Mary knew she should not take it, that she should refuse either the dance or the setting, and preferably both: but it had been so very long since she had waltzed, and she truly had no desire to return to the rowdy crowd in the ballroom, and with the partner at hand, well… rationality never stood a chance.

She made a show of considering it for a moment. “Hmmm…. dancing with a man unrelated to me alone in a dark room… I’d say the waltz itself would not be the principal source of scandal”. She closed the distance between them and added slyly: “Besides, I am quite fond of European imports. After all, I did marry one.”

Before he could react, she placed her hand in his: she was surprised to find it lacked the warmth she vividly remembered, but the coolness did not last once his fingers curled around hers, his other hand taking a gentle hold of her waist. She slid her free hand up his arm, coming to rest against the golden insignia, and lifted her face up at him to nod her readiness. To see him so close, in the dim light of the library, troubled her: there was a paleness to his complexion, a sheen to his forehead, a glassiness to his eyes that did not bid well.

He saw her brow furrow, her lips part to emit a question, but he did not want to hear it. He steadied himself, tightening his hold on her, and started moving to the music. She followed him readily, her feet light, her natural grace luminous despite her sombre dress and unassuming ornaments, and he watched it all in admiration. “ _Vous dansez bien, Madame_ ,” he commented appreciatively.

“ _Et vous de même_ ,” she observed, mirroring his grin. “Is the waltz part of the medical curriculum at La Sorbonne?”

“ _Oui, bien sûr_ , but merely preparatory courses for my post-graduate studies on the subject at _Medizinische Universität Wien_.”

Impressed, she raised her eyebrows, and in further proof of his prowess, he whirled her elegantly, stepping in to catch her from behind. The look of breathless surprise she shot him over her shoulder was more effective than all the feverfew in the world, and he spun her once more.

Together they stepped and twirled, keeping the beat perfectly, filling the small space around them. As their mutual comfort grew in the other’s abilities, so did the width of their smiles and the flair of their movements, until a particularly confident spin sent her skirt swirling high, hit the table and nearly toppled the lamp upon it.

They froze, the furniture oscillating, dangerously so at first, but it soon stabilized itself. The crisis averted, they both thought to stop and call it a night, that this close call was as good a warning as they would receive, but neither could bring themselves to pull away.

Rather, against all reason, Jedidiah drew her closer. “We are taking up too much space,” he offered, by poor way of explanation.

Mary looked up at him, now so near, the soft pressure of each of his fingers splayed across her back too wonderful to withdraw. “We would not want to break anything,” she responded in an almost whisper, and he could not help but wonder if her words hid a double entendre.

To stand still after such dancing made Jedidiah’s head spin; to hold her in his arms, positively glowing from the delight of their shared moment, did even less to still it. He knew he should not speak, that he should simply enjoy this stolen pleasure she allowed him, but his muddled mind refused to obey. That this instant would last, and would be repeated many times again, became its sole concern.

“I know I can be impossible,” he added, his voice dropping as he slowly resumed dancing, “And I am no European import, but I dare to hope that those many years abroad might have instilled at least some redeemable skills and qualities that perhaps, in time, may make me worthy of your… fondness.”

He looked at her so intently then, with an almost childish eagerness for her approval, that she could only avert her eyes to prevent being further drawn in, to avoid assuring him that, despite how flummoxed he made her most of the time, despite the color of his uniform and what it represented, despite his surely swift and complete condemnation of her should he learn her true allegiances, she could think of one else so worthy.

Yet, so much depended on her not saying so, and she hung her head. “I honestly do not know what to make of you, Captain Foster,” she admitted softly, earnestly, desolately.

If he was disappointed, he did not let it show; rather, he smiled kindly. “Then I shall speak of it no more, and happily settle on being your hiding companion and dance partner for tonight, Mrs. von Olnhausen.”

She nodded imperceptibly, and squeezed his hand, in silent promise that although she may not have an answer now, she hoped that his question would be asked again one day; if not when the war was over, at least when their façades would drop and their true selves would be revealed.

He led them once more, but whereas their first dance had been progressively driven by a playful élan, there was now a definite restraint, a tenderness, each step a careful study of the other’s body, of the way it moved in such proximity and in response to its own. Like this they swayed, inching imperceptibly closer together, willing the music never to end. Jedidiah kept his concentration on the obstacles about them, while Mary’s was fixed upon her own hand atop his shoulder, on the people that depended on her to keep it there, to never to raise her face and see the curve of his mouth, feel his breath mixing with hers, in the promise of something that should never be, but that she so intently desired now that he had spoken the words out loud and made them a possibility.

Her resistance lasted until she felt him leaning forward, his hand at her back urging her into him, and to Hell with it all.

She lifted her face to meet his, but there was nothing amorous in the way his beard grazed her cheek as he fell, a sudden surge of vertigo overtaking him and knocking the legs out from under him. She barely managed to grab onto his jacket and maintain him upright, herself stumbling backwards until she hit a bookcase, his arm jutting out at the last second to brace himself against it and prevent it and himself from collapsing fully onto her. In such proximity, he could not tell which heart was beating such, but it was fast, much too fast.

“I’m sorry, Mmm… Missus…,” he attempted, his tongue thick, breath rapid, eyelids shut tightly against the spinning of the room and the nausea now rising to meet it.

She cut him short by lifting her fingers to his brow, finding it covered by a cold sweat, and sliding her hand down to rest on his cheek. His unfocused eyes opened at the contact, finally finding hers, dark and wrecked with worry.

“Mary,” she said softly, but firmly, her gaze boring deep into his, her other hand pressed tightly above his racing heart. “Jedediah, we are going home.”

**Author's Note:**

> middlemarch, I see your white knuckles and raise you a purposely vague medical condition. Tag!
> 
> The Confederate Mercy Street AU collection is also finally created because it was frankly getting bulky and long to link all stories as related works, so look up middlemarch and tortoiseshells for more of this fun stuff. With this one, I tried to bridge the bulk of the collection back to the great "More eloquence in a sugar touch of them". I hope this passes muster.
> 
> There is so much potential in the ball itself, someone please have fun with the Greens wreaking havoc, Jealous Hale or the tiny Emmry seed planted. Speaking of which, I still owe you all an Emmry moonlit walk in the Mercy Street Players collection: it’s mostly written, just need some post-beach editing that got put on hold while I wrote this non-drabble instead.
> 
> Title is from Albert Pike's alternate Confederate verse to Dixie / Dixie's Land / I Wish I Was in Dixie.


End file.
